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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23116927">Southern Hospitality</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight'>Corvid_Knight</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Demonstuck [64]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Demonstuck, F/F, Mentioned violence, fae bullshit (yay!)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 16:28:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,824</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23116927</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You stop, raise the gun over your head to point at the high ceiling, pull the trigger, cock it, pull it again, cock it again until the hammer comes down on an empty chamber. It's louder than anything could possibly be. In the space after the echoes stop rolling—which seems to take a long time, as if this room exists within an ancient palace of stone and silver rather than the modern hotel you checked into this morning—everything is silent but for the ringing in your ears. </i>
</p>
<p><i>	And the Lady's looking at you now, sharp blue eyes in a china-doll face under perfectly sculpted ringlets of dark red hair. She doesn't look fae—no, she looks more human than you, a perfect, anachronistic southern belle in her rich blue ball gown. </i> </p>
<p>Jane runs into a situation at a fae gathering she and her partners have been invited to.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Calliope/Jane Crocker/Roxy Lalonde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Demonstuck [64]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1003470</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>66</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Southern Hospitality</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Your name is Jane Crocker, and you are currently thinking about what exactly makes a fae gathering different from anything else. Everyone in the hotel lobby they've designated as the Court for the moment <i>looks</i> human, more or less—sure, maybe there's a few feathers mixed into the delicately and elaborately arranged hairdos, perhaps the expensive furs blend near-seamlessly with the fur that grows on long elegant limbs, maybe bright eyes reflect the light oddly and smiles show teeth too sharp for human mouths, but you're a <i>hunter</i>. Little things like that are par for the course at this point. </p>
<p>	The effect's something beyond anything physical, you think. The title that any venue hosting the Lady and her Lord gains—that of High Court—is, supposedly, symbolic...but on another level, you really do suspect that this place might be a temporary extension of the Southern Lands, this court's corner of the fae kingdoms. </p>
<p>	But you do know better than to ask about that, or even hint at it. You're not even supposed to be poking into new business right now, anyway—this is a party, and you were actually invited without even the surface explanation of a treaty to be negotiated or a contract to be hammered out. That does mean that you might need to be even more on your guard than usual—contract of hospitality or no, fae don't often welcome humans into their events, and they even more rarely welcome hunters. </p>
<p>	...then again, the attention one of the younger lords (or at least one who's chosen to wear a young face) has been paying you for the last twenty minutes suggests that the ulterior motive for the invitation might be less sinister than...annoying. Or romantic. At this point it's honestly the same thing—you brought your girlfriends to this, for fuck's sake, wore their rings on your finger and kept close to them for as long as could possibly considered polite; how exactly does any of that say <i>I am currently looking for another partner</i> to this idiot? </p>
<p>	At least he's being a gentleman about it. Either he's not really that serious about this possible conquest, or the Lady's keeping a closer eye on you than you thought. It doesn't really matter which one's the real explanation; either way he's not likely to get any more pushy, even if you keep redirecting his playful advances. This is fine. </p>
<p>	Now you're thinking about Calliope and Roxy. You haven't checked on them for a while; maybe you should do that now. You smile at the charming young lord; he laughs when you make an excuse and lets you walk away without an argument; you smile over your shoulder at him and start scanning the little groups of fae for the two people here who don't quite belong. </p>
<p>	Callie's easy to spot—she's the shortest one here, shorter even than you, and probably the most plainly dressed person in the building let alone this room. You spot her curled in a chair with her big green eyes fixed on the fae she's listening to, an angular woman with sharp canines that flash in and out of view as she speaks and furry feline ears rising from her dark hair. It's weird to be reminded that literally everyone you know is on some level either a furry or attracted to furries, but you decide after a moment that Calliope's fine. It'd be rude to interrupt, probably; you catch her eye for a second, then keep walking once you get a bright smile. </p>
<p>	By your third circuit around the room, you have to admit that Roxy isn't here. You could have missed her once, <i>maybe</i> twice, but three times? No. Just, no. It's worrisome, to say the least...but it's not like the two of you don't have a fallback plan for times like this. </p>
<p>	It means leaving the room, though. Location magic tends to go on the fritz in the Court. The guard at the door winks at you as you leave; you take that to mean that Roxy came this way already. </p>
<p>	Time to find out if you're right. As soon as you're out of the guard's sight, you stop and push one sleeve of your suit jacket up enough to expose your left wrist, and the entwined snakes tattooed there. You run one finger over the dark blue one's tiny scales, concentrating until it twitches, twists, and wriggles free of the green one, slithering up the base of your thumb and making a full circuit until it's winding around the lines of your palm. It circles for another moment—calibrating to account for all the other ambient magic, if you had to guess—then twists itself into a graceful curve, nose and tail pointing in the same direction. </p>
<p>	Towards the elevator. You guess that should have been obvious, and it does sort of prove the hypothesis that Roxy just headed back up to the suite that came along with the invitation to visit the Court. Still, she might have had enough of a lapse in judgement to think hooking up with a fae was a good idea, so you waste a couple seconds slowly moving your hand over the buttons for the various floors until the snake tattooed in your palm flicks its tongue out to let you know you've picked the right one. </p>
<p>	Sure enough, it's the sixth floor. You hit the button and spend the whole ride wondering why exactly you are like this. There's no need to be so paranoid at this point—do you <i>really</i> need to take this trip up instead of spending the time dodging flirtatious advances from a man you'd never in any universe be attracted to while also keeping an eye out for any signal that the Lady or her consorts are showing a more active interest in you? </p>
<p>	Actually no don't answer that. You do in fact need this break, and hey—maybe there'll be a chance to get up to the kind of shenanigans that'd prove the guard's obvious suspicions about your and Roxy's concurrent absence totally correct. Sounds fun, you're going to do it. </p>
<p>	An interesting and relevant side note about the fae and establishments that they own and maintain: privacy is valued. Highly valued. Prized, even. With humans that would probably mean added soundproofing, secure locks; with the fae, it means pretty much the same thing, but with a lot of stupidly powerful magic involved. The point you're getting to right now is that opening a door halfway through a gunshot that's wholly inaudible until the barrier is broken is...something. </p>
<p>	"Roxy?" Terrifying. It's terrifying, that's the word you're looking for. You don't close the door behind yourself as you step through it; in the increasingly-likely event that you get shot, you might as well leave it so Calliope doesn't <i>have</i> to be the first one to come in. She probably will be anyway, though; why would anyone else check the room? Well, other than the gunshot. That you might not hear, if the bullet hits just right. </p>
<p>	<i>Why</i> are you like this. </p>
<p>	"Roxy? Roxy, are you—" </p>
<p>	She sobs, in one of the other rooms. No, it has to be the bathroom—you hear glass shatter right on the tail of the first sound. The sharp and almost musical clatter can't last long—you can't imagine any reason that glass would just keep falling, bouncing off the stone surface of the counter and shattering into even more and tinier pieces on the smooth curve of the sink—but the sound is nonetheless still echoing off the walls when you shove the door all the way open and see her. </p>
<p>	The broken glass is from the mirror. It's shattered, a couple patches still stubbornly clinging to the wall but most fallen to the counter or the floor, or vaporized by the rounds Roxy put into it. What's left is cracked into more sections than you can count right now; each shard reflects its own image of Roxy's blank face, of the gun in her hands, of—no, come back to the fucking gun, Jane, that's the important thing right now. You idiot. You absolute buffoon. </p>
<p>	Then Roxy swings around, the movement smooth but still somehow awkward—too stiff, like only some of her joints are in use right now. And yes, the gun goes from pointing at the shattered mirror or the wall or nothing in particular to pointing <i>directly</i> at you, and yes, you should be concerned about that, you should <i>definitely</i> be concerned about that, but. You're caught by Roxy's face—it isn't just her expression that's blank. There's nothing in her eyes, her pupils shrank smaller than you thought could be possible, until there's nothing to be seen but vibrant pink iris and white sclera. There's no way she's seeing you right now, no way she can be seeing anything...</p>
<p>	...but she is, and you <i>know</i> she is, and you understand enough about how fae construct spells to <i>immediately</i> paste smile that'd pass muster as sincere to anyone short of an empath across your face. There's a chance that she won't pull the trigger until she's confronted by obvious negative emotion; that'd keep her from going off in the Court itself. "Roxy?" </p>
<p>	She doesn't react. The gun stays pointed right at your chest. Well, it'd probably take out your throat if she pulled the trigger—Roxy's a long-range marksman, she'll automatically adjust her aim upward. On that note...that's not one of her guns, you know it's not one of yours, and Calliope didn't pack one for this trip, so...</p>
<p>	Look at it. Keep the reassuring smile in place but take your eyes off Roxy's face, focus on the gun. </p>
<p>	It looks...wrong. <i>Archaic</i> is the first word that comes to mind, but that's not quite right—it's too pristine to be old; you doubt it'd even been fired before Roxy got her hands on it. The metal gleams softer than iron or steel would—is it silver, platinum, some white gold alloy? For all you know it could be kryptonite; all that matters right now is that it's not made of the cold metals that're anathema to fae magic, and the reason for <i>that</i> is fairly obvious. </p>
<p>	Assuming that there isn't a catastrophic failsafe component to the spell she's caught in, the touch of iron should break Roxy out of it. Technically, you shouldn't have any iron on you when you're working with fae at all, let alone in the Court...but the plain band that's sort of maybe an engagement ring or a wedding band or <i>something</i> around your finger isn't just silver and gold twisted together, but a braid of both those metals and cold iron. Something that small and worked into such an obvious token of adoration usually gets "overlooked," even by the fae. </p>
<p>	But see, you have a sinking feeling that there probably <i>is</i> a catastrophic failsafe. You're going to have to get the gun before you try anything else. And not get shot. Not getting shot is one of the main goals here. "Roxy, I'm going to take that, all right?" </p>
<p>	No response...but she doesn't move when you step forward and reach for the gun. The metal's colder than it should be, enough to sting where your fingers brush against the barrel. </p>
<p>	"Roxy." She won't let go. You're afraid to try to pull it out of her hand—the hammer's already cocked and she's got her hands clamped around the smooth white wood or stone or bone of the grip, so tightly you can't find the smallest gap or point of weakness to exploit. "Roxy—" </p>
<p>	Your smile must slip a little with your desperation, because you feel her grip shift the slightest bit as she eases more pressure onto the trigger. You can't step away, you can't pull the gun from her deathgrip—</p>
<p>	—but you <i>can</i> shift your own grip, can't you? Too slow—her finger tightens too far, but the sound that echoes off the tile and stone of the bathroom walls is the sharp <i>snap</i> of the hammer falling on an empty chamber rather than another explosion of fire and gunpowder. In the moment it takes her to cock it again, you shove your finger up under the trigger. She tries to fire again anyway, of course, sobbing out a broken, frustrated sound as it doesn't work. </p>
<p>	You vaguely wonder if it's possible to break a finger like this. It really does feel like it is...but never mind. She still has the gun, but you have control for this second at least; you reach up with your free right hand, cupping her face. God you hope this is purely fae magic. </p>
<p>	It is. As soon as the iron of your ring makes contact with the soft skin of her cheek, Roxy's eyes roll back and her grip on the gun loosens. It's in your hands for a moment; you promptly fling it into the tub and grab at her shoulders instead—she's falling, dead weight in freefall for a moment until you get your arms around her, under her arms so you can take her weight and pull her up against yourself. </p>
<p>	You shouldn't really have a problem with that—hell, you pick Roxy up and carry her all the time—but she <i>is</i> a head taller than you, and the physics of this situation are stupidly awkward, and you're right at the point where you tip over the high of adrenaline and head for the crash. You don't drop her, not exactly at least, but you do sink to the bathroom floor until you're kneeling with Roxy leaning limply against you. </p>
<p>	After a minute or so she shifts in your arms, pushing herself up just enough to meet your eyes. Hers still don't look quite right—unfocused and glassy—but at least her pupils are back to normal, not barely-present pinpricks anymore. </p>
<p>	"...Janey?" She sounds...out of it. Drugged, almost, even though you know no member of the Court would dare tamper with food or drink here where it might find its way back to the Lady. "I don't...what..." </p>
<p>	It's the magic still clinging to her, not drug or drink. Give her a minute and the confusion should pass. </p>
<p>	"Janey, you're shaking." Roxy's arms slip around your waist, and just like that you go from <i>holding</i> to <i>being held.</i> God knows you need it. "I—fuck, what'd I <i>do</i>?" </p>
<p>	"Nothing." Your voice shakes too, you realize. Damn it. "It's okay, everything's—" </p>
<p>	"I shot somebody?" The words come out unsure; she hesitates for a moment and amends it with something more confident, if not calmer. "Shit, Janey, I shot <i>you</i>? What the fuck—" </p>
<p>	"Do I look shot to you?" Okay, you probably didn't need to snap at her, but she does seem as relieved as if you'd managed to make the right kind of emotional effort to reassure her. "Just—give me a minute." </p>
<p>	"Uh-huh." And she nods, and hugs you up closer, and you lean against her and get a double handful of her shirt as you breathe out slowly and let your eyes close.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The two of you are still there on the floor when Calliope comes back. You have no idea how long that takes—long enough for the adrenaline to finish draining out of your system, but not long enough for Roxy to start fidgeting because she wants to get up. </p>
<p>	Then again, the sleepy sound she makes when Callie says first your name and then hers suggests that her willingness to stay put is more about her falling asleep than about the length of time that's passed. That's fine, though. You can definitely work with that. </p>
<p>	"Watch the glass," you warn as Callie falls to her knees beside you. You don't <i>think</i> there's any on the floor, but then again you and Roxy have pants on and Calliope's wearing a dress, so...better safe than sorry. "Were they looking for me down there yet?" </p>
<p>	"The fae weren't, no—I think I was the only one who noticed so far. Roxy?" Callie's bright green eyes flick shut for a moment as she leans in to put a hand on Roxy's forehead, smoothing back her short dyed-pink hair. Her tongue swipes across her lips as she tastes the air for something you can't begin to detect. "She smells like magic..." </p>
<p>	"I know." You've already slipped the ring off your ring finger and onto Roxy's thumb; even if the spell she was caught in has the ability to come out of dormancy, you doubt it'll be able to do any more damage with the iron still dampening it. "Someone decided to try and get around the Court's peace." </p>
<p>	"Who?" Calliope scoots closer, tugging at Roxy's arm until her weight shifts off of you. "Are you okay?" </p>
<p>	"<i>I</i> didn't get enspelled." </p>
<p>	"No, but you're the main target here. You <i>always</i> are, and we all know it." She makes a face as you get to your feet and lean down to scoop Roxy up, trailing a step behind you as you head into the other room. "And we both know you'd be a <i>lot</i> more upset if she'd been hurt, so I already know she's okay. What happened to the mirror?" </p>
<p>	"She shot it." With the time you've had to consider why that was the first thing she did, you've come up with the working hypothesis that the spell was worked to mark all three of you as targets, regardless of whether it fell on Calliope or Roxy; the first one that Roxy came in contact with just happened to be herself. It's good she did, honestly; the shock of the sound of breaking glass might have been what let you get close enough to break the magic so easily. "Can you stay up here with her?" </p>
<p>	"Are you going to do something stupid?" That's not a <i>yes</i>, but Calliope settles on the bed as you lay Roxy down and step away; it's certainly not a <i>no</i>. "Jane, that's a gun. You're going to do something stupid." </p>
<p>	"I'm just going to go give it back." The metal's still too cold to the touch, the white grip—it's bone, you know it is—just barely bearable to touch. You open the cylinder, count four shots left out of...seven? Unconventional, but you guess it makes sense for a gun created out of magic to be built around a number of power. "And maybe do something a <i>tiny</i> bit stupid. Just a bit." </p>
<p>	"Just be careful? Please?" </p>
<p>	"I always am, aren't I?" </p>
<p>	Callie's snort follows you out the door.</p>
<hr/>
<p>You spend the elevator ride down composing yourself, which is a lot harder than it sounds—with the brittle calm of action over and the fear that comes along with the shock of processing what you just did gone, you're left with...well, anger, mostly. Like, a lot of anger. Enough anger that you have to work hard at breathing evenly, smoothing your face into something calm enough and inoffensive enough that the guard at the door won't stop you. </p>
<p>	He does anyway, though. Of course he does. "No weapons are permitted in the High Court, Ms. Crocker." </p>
<p>	Oh yes. The gun. "I'm sorry, but I really must insist on returning it to its owner." </p>
<p>	"Returning it." He doesn't make the words a question, but you choose to hear them as one anyway. You flip the gun to hold it by the ice-cold barrel, feeling the metal leach the heat from your palm as you hold it out for inspection. You can't hold it this way for long, but you won't show the pain until you absolutely have to drop it...and it won't come to that, anyway. The guard's eyes widen immediately as he sees the fae magic in the revolver. </p>
<p>	Permission to bring it through isn't granted—you doubt that the guard has the authority to grant it—but he inclines his head and steps back out of your way, and you suppose that's good enough. You don't have to cause a scene, not yet—it may be the end goal, but doing it in the hall would be kind of pointless. You keep the gun down at your side once you enter the Court itself, not that doing that lets you escape notice; every eye in the Court follows you as you make your way to the center of the room. </p>
<p>	Well, almost every eye. The Lady does not seem to even mark your presence, although the lord she's speaking to watches your approach with the cold green-gold eyes of a swamp alligator. He'd bite just as hard as one too, if you came too close with a weapon in your hands. That's fine, though—fifteen feet is plenty close enough. </p>
<p>	You stop, raise the gun over your head to point at the high ceiling, pull the trigger, cock it, pull it again, cock it again until the hammer comes down on an empty chamber. It's louder than anything could possibly be. In the space after the echoes stop rolling—which seems to take a long time, as if this room exists within an ancient palace of stone and silver rather than the modern hotel you checked into this morning—everything is silent but for the ringing in your ears. </p>
<p>	And the Lady's looking at you now, sharp blue eyes in a china-doll face under perfectly sculpted ringlets of dark red hair. She doesn't look fae—no, she looks more human than you, a perfect, anachronistic southern belle in her rich blue ball gown. </p>
<p>	She's smiling. </p>
<p>	(That's dangerous.) </p>
<p>	"Miz Crocker, I don't believe I deserved that." The Lady's tone is as gentle as her smile, her southern accent softer and more cultured than any you've ever heard. You suspect that it's not so much the difference between Texas and Georgia as the difference between human and fae. "Far as I can tell, everyone's havin' a <i>lovely</i> time here." </p>
<p>	Careful. You feel the compulsion in her words; it's a struggle to hold onto your anger at what's been done to Roxy. You are <i>not</i> having a lovely time. You will <i>not</i> let her make you believe you are. "I'm sure they are, my Lady, but <i>I</i> have a grievance." </p>
<p>	"Oh?" Perfectly shaped brows arch in a look of surprise that's both believable and much too smooth to not be staged. "With <i>me</i>?" </p>
<p>	"With one of your guests." You open the cylinder again, show the empty chambers; the lord with the reptilian eyes glances to the Lady, receives a calm nod, and stops forward to examine the weapon. He doesn't try to take it, not that you would let him. "I came here under the protection of hospitality, and neither I nor my—" —shit, how can you plan every word of this and not decide on what term you're going to use for Roxy and Calliope? "—my partners were the ones to break that contract." </p>
<p>	The Lady's head tilts thoughtfully; her eyes stay fixed on you even as her lord returns to her side to murmur a report in her ear. "Miz Crocker, I do believe you're coming to the wrong person with this. I couldn't even <i>begin</i> to guess who might be so rude." </p>
<p>	You knew she'd play it that way, of course. Anything else would be an admittance that she sanctioned this, whether that's the case or not. You knew she'd say that, and you did come up with a plan. Unfortunately that plan consists mainly of thinly veiled threats. "That's fine. I'd been told the Dark Court wasn't overly protective of guests, after all—I'm sure the Bright Court will be interested in this, though. They should be more than happy to sort this little matter out, remove the threat. The local hunters' groups won't be too happy to hear about this sort of magic used under treaty, either. Someone could have <i>died</i>." </p>
<p>	Someone gasps. It's not the Lady—the only visible reaction you get from her is the slightest narrowing of those clear sapphire eyes, the faintest furrow in the smooth pale brow—but it's nice to have the satisfaction of knowing you've offended someone's delicate sensibilities. </p>
<p>	You keep that satisfaction off your face, though, as you turn to leave. Two steps towards the door, and the Lady clears her throat. "Miz Crocker." </p>
<p>	And <i>there</i> we go. You turn and raise an eyebrow. "Yes, my Lady?" </p>
<p>	"You didn't let me finish, darlin'." As if she never meant to leave you high and dry. "I wouldn't dare guess who'd disgrace my Court like this...but I'm sure he'll come forward when you challenge him. It's a matter of honor, after all." </p>
<p>	From her coy smile, that's not the answer you're supposed to be hoping for. It's nice to be reassured that fae still can't ready you perfectly <i>every</i> time. </p>
<p>	"I challenge the owner of this weapon." Roxy would kill you if she saw you do it, but you still toss the gun down. It clatters across the hardwood floor; the gathered fae retreat from it, leaving you, the gun, and a fae dressed in pure black clothing that brings to mind obscure funerary rites alone in an empty space. </p>
<p>	He smiles at you with sharp teeth, the most memorable aspect of an utterly unremarkable face, as he kneels to pick the gun up. "Do you have your second, <i>lady</i>?" </p>
<p>	Wow. You don't hear that much venom put into one word all that often. "I only need one if I choose to not fight you myself, so...I don't think it's necessary. Unless <i>you'd</i> like to insist?" </p>
<p>	Anger flicks across his face; he didn't want or expect that answer. You've just locked him into single combat, after all. "I choose physical contest, then." </p>
<p>	"Odd choice, since you obviously favor firearms and magic." Not that you trust him to not use the latter, but with a little finangling you should be able to block him from that. "I concede the choice of time to you, then." </p>
<p>	He takes that as an insult, rather than your not-too-subtle path to taking choice of venue. Good, even if his lip does curl up into a snarl before he composes himself enough to answer. "I choose <i>now</i>, then." </p>
<p>	"Lovely. I'm sure the Court maintains the proper facilities for <i>fair</i> physical contests?" </p>
<p>	The Lady laughs, soft and genteel and oh-so-amused, like it's a game of darts or chess or whatever the hell normal people use to settle arguments instead of a fistfight that's almost certainly going to turn bloody. "So eager, both of you! I know I'm ready for some entertainment, and I'm <i>sure</i> the Court is too. Come along, gentlemen." </p>
<p>	You can't tell if her choice to not classify you as a lady is supposed to be a compliment or an insult. You'll take it as the former—your preference of titles is just as complicated as the rest of how you choose to present yourself, but you know you definitely <i>don't</i> want to be the sort of lady this Court seems to prefer.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The neutral ground for physical contests turns out to be something built into the hotel (or into the Court; you're still not sure if they're the same thing or not.) The Lady sweeps out of the main room, and down a hall that you'd swear wasn't here when you came through here before, murmuring to the lord escorting her as she trails you, the fae you've challenged, and what seems like at least half the Court behind her. </p>
<p>	You let him lead—it's not like you care about the status boost of being closer to the Lady. Not vying with him for position also means you're free to strip off your suit jacket and wonder what the <i>hell</i> you're going to do with it. </p>
<p>	"Here, sweetheart." It's the feline fae Calliope was so enthralled with earlier; she gives you a fanged smile and carefully plucks your jacket from your hands, folding it over her arm. "Give the fox hell, and we'll be sure that his life's hell even after you're satisfied; does that sound like a fair deal?" </p>
<p>	Oh you are <i>not</i> saying yes to that. You know better than to make a deal with a fae so easily. "It sounds like an interesting idea." When she laughs, you ask, "So you have a quarrel with him?" </p>
<p>	"Mmm. You could say that. You're not the first he's taken issue with—the fox doesn't play the game of romance in a way we'd count as sporting." She shrugs, giving you another easy smile as her ears flick back for a moment. "Especially if you're playing in a league he doesn't fit it." </p>
<p>	After translating that out of cryptid bullshit, you have to sigh. Great, so this is more about your interests lying in other areas than even the most charming fae men than about your being human. You're not sure whether you should be relieved he's not a racist or just irritated that you managed to find a damn homophobe. "The Lady allows that?" </p>
<p>	"The laws of the Court <i>allow</i> many things." The cat-fae laughs—a low purr of a sound, rich and ironic—and tosses her head as the Lady turns to pass into another room, this one nearly as large as the main Court, but empty of any furniture or decoration. Well, other than the ring of metal embedded in the black stone floor. You're guessing the arena itself is ten, maybe fifteen feet in diameter—plenty of room for you to work with. "They <i>won't</i> allow aid, if that's what you hoped for." </p>
<p>	"I don't expect aid." </p>
<p>	"No? Would you take our favor, then?" </p>
<p>	Hm. "What am I paying for it?" </p>
<p>	She smiles. It only vaguely resembles any human expression—only long experience, training, and a healthy dose of furry tendencies keep you from flinching, from stepping back as she leans down to you. </p>
<p>	"Shame the fox for us," she whispers, and presses a kiss that burns like fire to your forehead. </p>
<p>	Well, you intended to do that anyway. You breathe in, breathe out, remind yourself to not touch the warm and tingling spot on your forehead (damn, you're going to have to explain the probably-visible mark to Roxy and Calliope later; that should be interesting) and step over the iron embedded in the floor. </p>
<p>	Across the room from you, the fae that the cat woman called a fox does the same; he obviously feels something more than you do, because he winces, mouth twisting up into a snarl. Interesting; his face doesn't change as the iron strips his glamours away, but his clothing does—it goes from smooth, clean black that almost absorbs light, to a shade more normal, less intimidatingly perfect. </p>
<p>	Well, at least it's not wholly spun from magic and glamour. You'd hate being the only clothed person in the ring. You know you must already look lesser than him, in the eyes of many of the fae in the room—there's nothing inhuman about you, none of the pageantry and often-cruel playfulness that the fae themselves carry. You're <i>human</i>, and that alone leaves you vaguely ridiculous in this situation. </p>
<p>	No one's laughing, though. The fox shows his teeth in something that's not a smile; they're as sharp as ever, even without magic to paint a point onto them. "Little human mage, planning to take an unearned advantage over your betters. Do you think they'll praise you for it?" </p>
<p>	Mage? Oh, wait—you have to roll your eyes, as you raise your hand to show the snakes tattooed there, slowly twisting across your skin as your mental state affects them. "I request that the purpose of my markings be verified by the Court before we begin, please." </p>
<p>	The Lady raises a delicate eyebrow and looks to a fae with violet eyes that shine like stars and matching glowing markings across their cheeks. They frown at you for a moment, then bow their head. "Promise-bonds on her hands. Hunters' marks on her back. The cat's favor on her brow. No magic of her own, my Lady." </p>
<p>	"Would it be the favor you object to, Lord Fox?" There's a note of laughter in the Lady's voice; fae do love seeing others humiliated. "I'm <i>sure</i> she'd be willing to forfeit it for the course of your game, if it's all that distracting to you." </p>
<p>	A ripple of laughter goes around the room at the suggestion; the fox scowls at you. "It won't help her," he growls. </p>
<p>	"I didn't expect it to," you tell him, taking another step forward. You doubt he'll be quick enough or strong enough to drive you back with his first strike, but you might as well leave yourself a little safety, just in case. "Last chance to back out, Lord Fox." </p>
<p>	It's another insult—one he likely would have offered to you if you hadn't beaten him to it—and this time, he doesn't bother to answer it with one of his own. The fox snarls and lunges for you; you feel the grim smile spreading across your face as you drop into a combat stance and bring up your fists. </p>
<p>	He has no idea what he started. You think you like it that way.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Half an hour later, the door to your room hesitates before it lets you turn the knob. You <i>know</i> it still knows who you are—the stupid thing's keyed to lifeforce or personal aura or whatever the hell the fae choose to use, it's not going to be fooled by a few bruises and a little blood—which means this is just the Lady's way of suggesting you slow down for a moment, compose yourself before you continue. </p>
<p>	You are not going to do that. Even with the healing you got after, you're sore and bloody and not at all willing to postpone cleaning up and rejoining Roxy and Calliope even thirty seconds of contemplation longer, and you think that whatever magic holds the door against anyone not meant to pass through it knows that, because it does let you in after that heartbeat of hesitation. Good for it. </p>
<p> 	"Jane?" Calliope calls from the bedroom as you shut the door behind yourself. Her voice is soft, but you can hear the undertones that mean she's dropped her human form; you guess she's shifted to sphinx to keep an eye on whatever magic's still clinging to Roxy. "Is that you?" </p>
<p>	"It's me, don't worry." Hopefully she'll understand that you don't want to be seen. Not yet, not until you've had a chance to clean up. You step into the bathroom and consider your reflection in the still-broken mirror; it's made a decent attempt to start repairing itself, but you haven't given it time to do much more than start to melt the worst of the cracks away. Still, there's enough of an unshattered patch for you to frown at your reflection as you turn the sink on and adjust the water to come out warm. </p>
<p>	The worst of the damage is from where he headbutted you when he realized you weren't going to fight like a lady, you think. There wasn't much of a window for him to really try to hurt you in—he mostly stopped fighting when you broke his arm. The cat-woman kissed away the worst of the damage—nothing's fractured now—but some of the bruises linger, and the magic hasn't done anything about the blood from where he split your lips and broke your nose. </p>
<p>	Damn, you're a mess. You close your eyes for a moment and turn away from the mirror, to the neatly folded stack of towels on the other end of the counter. It'll be better after you wash off. You'll look better then.</p>
<hr/>
<p>From the dismayed look that Callie gives you when you come back into the bedroom with your hair damp and the first shirt you pulled from your suitcase on, you do not in fact look better. You do feel better, though, enough to roll your eyes and smile as she makes a scolding sound and pulls you down to sit on the bed. Roxy's already there, fast asleep and wearing another one of your shirts. </p>
<p>	You reach over to let your fingers trail over the looping vines tattooed over her collarbone as Callie kneels on the bed and cups your face in her hands. "Did you put her to sleep?" </p>
<p>	"No—I had to use magic to keep her awake long enough to shower." Callie grimaces, her thumb brushing against your lips for a moment. "Whoever enspelled her didn't bother to put an ending to it—it would have kept leaching from him, if I hadn't washed it away." </p>
<p>	He probably didn't mean to leave whoever was caught in the spell alive for it to stay attached to. You don't say that, though; instead you tip your head into the light pressure of Calliope's hands and offer, "Disgusting." </p>
<p>	"Oh, very. You have traces of his magic on you too, you know?" </p>
<p>	"...yeah." Of course you do. You close your eyes and see the fox's battered face, golden eyes wide and trapped and <i>terrified</i>, set in a smeared mask of blood. "I took his name, so I'm...not surprised." </p>
<p>	"<i>Jane</i>." There's shock in Callie's voice—and probably on her face if you'd open your eyes to see, which you are not going to do—but not judgement, not remonstrance. "Are you okay?" </p>
<p>	"They healed the worst of it—" </p>
<p>	"You know what I mean." </p>
<p>	Unfortunately, you do. You can feel the power you hold over the fox, his name caught like a hot coal in your chest with power pulsing outward from it. You're going to be setting off wards for <i>weeks</i> after this is over. "I'm not keeping it. He can either apologize to us, or I'll make a gift of his name to one of the other members of the Court." </p>
<p>	Calliope hums thoughtfully; her hands slip away from your face. BEfore you can do more than open your mouth to complain, she's thrown an arm around your shoulders, pulling you down with her fully body weight. Since you weigh at least twice as much as she does, the effort itself isn't too effective...but you let yourself flop down to the blankets anyway, not quite landing on Roxy, who whines in her sleep and rolls over to snuggle into your chest. </p>
<p>	You <i>really</i> feel better now, with her there and Callie settling down on top of you with her arms looped around your neck and her head resting on your shoulder. "Not to the Lady?" she asks. </p>
<p>	"No." Even with his attack on and subsequent loss to you, the Lady favors the fox. If she outright requests that you return his name or hand it over to her, you suppose you will...but she could have asked for that when you stepped out of the circle, and she didn't. So. "The cat-fae, maybe—" </p>
<p>	Callie hums against your shoulder. "She kissed you, didn't she?" </p>
<p>	The mark on your forehead. Her favor. "Sorry." </p>
<p>	She huffs out a smothered little giggle at that. "Jane, she asked me for permission. Roxy too, maybe—the fae who're serious have enough sense to court us if they're going to court you." </p>
<p>	That's...interesting. "<i>Why</i> is it that everyone here wants to court me?" </p>
<p>	"You're the prettiest one here. The most charming, the most powerful—" </p>
<p>	"Flatterer. I can't even use magic that someone hasn't tailor-made for me." </p>
<p>	"And you still took his name from him. Without any of that." </p>
<p>	She's right. And the fae might look down on you for being merely human, for lacking the ability to touch the energy that they're half made from...but they'll damn well appreciate the cunning that goes into forcing a fae into a situation where you can beat his name out of him without circumventing the rules of engagement or of the Court. </p>
<p>	You wonder if this means you'll have even more romantic advances to deal with now. And maybe Callie can read your mind a little bit, about that at least, because she laughs again, half-muffling it against your throat with a series of soft little kisses there. "I'll play gatekeeper to them for you, Jane. You know they'll never guess my riddles." </p>
<p>	"<i>I</i> always guess your riddles, dear." </p>
<p>	"Yes, but you're smart and I love you. They're not going to be so lucky." </p>
<p>	You suppose she's right. You're also very tired now...and this is very comfortable. And if you're going to have to go back down and face the High Court with the fox's name behind your lips—which you are—you might as well get some sleep. </p>
<p>	Calliope hums against your neck and Roxy squirms even closer, as you close your eyes and settle down to do just that.</p>
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